feeling.
Now everything was ready. The coach door slammed, the coachman cracked his whip, the horses dashed away so that the coach windows rattled; the Frau Consul let: fly her little white handkerchief; and the carriage, rolling down the street, disappeared in the mist.
The Consul stood thoughtfully next to his wife, who drew her cloak about her shoulders with a graceful movement.
“There she goes, Betsy.”
“Yes, Jean, the first to leave us. Do you think she is happy with him?”
“Oh, Betsy, she is satisfied with herself, which is better; it is the most solid happiness we can have on this earth.”
They went back to their guests.
15
THOMAS BUDDENBROOK WENT down Meng Street as far as the “Five Houses.” He avoided Broad Street so as not to be accosted by acquaintances and obliged to greet them. With his hands deep in the big pockets of his warm dark grey overcoat, he walked, sunk in thought, over the hard, sparkling snow, which crunched under his boots. He went his own way, and whither it led no one knew but himself. The sky was pale blue and clear, the air biting and crisp – a still, severe, clear weather, with five degrees of frost; in short, a matchless February day.
Thomas walked down the “Five Houses,” crossed Bakers’ Alley, and went along a narrow cross-street into Fishers’ Lane. He followed this street, which led down to the Trave parallel to Meng Street, for a few steps, and paused before a small house, a modest flower-shop, with a narrow door and dingy show-window, where a few pots of bulbs stood on a pane of green glass.
He went in, whereupon the bell above the door began to give tongue, like a little watch-dog. Within, before the counter, talking to the young saleswoman, was a little fat elderly lady in a Turkey shawl. She was choosing a pot of flowers, examining, smelling, criticizing, chattering, and constantly obliged to wipe her mouth with her handkerchief. Thomas Buddenbrook greeted her politely and stepped to one side. She was a poor relation of the Langhals’, a good-natured garrulous old maid who bore the name of one of the best families without herself belonging to their set: that is, she was not asked to the large dinners, but to the small coffee circles. She was known to almost all the world as Aunt Lottchen. She turned toward the door, with her pot of flowers, wrapped up in tissue paper, under her arm; and Thomas, after greeting her again, said in an elevated voice to the shop girl, “Give me a couple of roses, please. Never mind the kind – well, La France.”
Then, after Aunt Lottchen had shut the door behind her and gone away, he said in a lower voice, “Put them away again, Anna. How are you, little Anna? Here I am – and I’ve come with a heavy heart.”
Anna wore a white apron over her simple black frock. She was wonderfully pretty. Delicately built as a fawn, she had an almost mongol type of face, somewhat prominent cheek-bones, narrow black eyes full of a soft gleam, and a pale yellow skin the like of which is rare anywhere. Her hands, of the same tint, were narrow, and more beautiful than a shop girl’s are wont to be.
She went behind the counter at the right end, so that she could not be seen through the shop-window. Thomas followed on the outside of the counter and, bending over, kissed her on the lips and the eyes.
“You are quite frozen, poor boy,” she said.
“Five degrees,” said Tom. “I didn’t notice it, I’ve felt so sad coming over. ”
He sat down on the table, keeping her hand in his, and went on: “Listen, Anna; we’ll be sensible to-day, won’t we? The time has come.”
“Oh, dear,” she said miserably, and lifted her apron to her eyes.
“It had to happen some time, Anna. No, don’t weep. We were going to be reasonable, weren’t we? What else is there to do? One has to bear such things.”
“When?” asked Anna, sobbing.
“Day after to-morrow.”
“Oh, God, no! Why to-morrow? A week longer – five days! Please, oh, please!”
“Impossible, dear Anna. Everything is arranged and in order. They are expecting me in Amsterdam. I couldn’t make it a day longer, no matter how much I wanted.”
“And that is so far away – so far away!”
“Amsterdam? Nonsense, that isn’t far. We can always think of each other, can’t we? And I’ll write to you. You’ll see, I’ll write directly I’ve got there.”
“Do you remember,” she said, “a year and a half ago, at the Rifle-club fair?”
He interrupted her ardently. “Do I remember? Yes, a year and a half ago! I took you for an Italian. I bought a pink and put it in my button-hole. – I still have it – I am taking it with me to Amsterdam. – What a heat: how hot and dusty it was on the meadow!”
“Yes, you bought me a glass of lemonade from the next booth. I remember it like yesterday. Everything smelled of fatty-cakes and people.”
“But it was fine! We knew right away how we felt – about each other!”
“You wanted to take me on the carrousel, but I couldn’t go; I had to be in the shop. The old woman would have scolded.”
“No, I know it wouldn’t have done, Anna.”
She said softly and clearly, “But that is the only thing I’ve refused you.”
He kissed her again, on the lips and the eyes. “Adieu, darling little Anna. We must begin to say good-bye.”
“Oh, you will come back to-morrow?”
“Yes, of course, and day after to-morrow early, if I can get away. – But there is one thing I want to say to you, Anna. I am going, after all, rather far away. Amsterdam is a long way off – and you are staying here. But – don’t throw yourself away, I tell you.”
She wept into her apron, holding it up with her free hand to her face. “And you – and you?”
“God knows, Anna, what will happen. One isn’t young for ever – you are a sensible girl, you have never said anything about marriage and that sort of thing –”
“God forbid – that I should ask such a thing of you!”
“One is carried along – you see. If I live, I shall take over the business, and make a good match – you see, I am open with you at parting, Anna. I wish you every happiness, darling, darling little Anna. But don’t throw yourself away, do you hear? For you haven’t done that – with me – I swear it.”
It was warm in the shop. A moist scent of earth and flowers was in the air. Outside, the winter sun was hurrying to its repose, and a pure delicate sunset, like one painted on porcelain, beautified the sky across the river. People hurried past the window, their chins tucked into their turned-up collars; no one gave a glance into the corner of the little flower-shop, at the two who stood there saying their last farewells.
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